LIFE CLASS — THE ANATOMY OF A PLAY

We've asked much published author, Clinton Smith, to present a review of his new Australian play. On the surface, it's a hilarious and scarifying depiction of a dysfunctional family. But its also a profound look at identification -  the slavery of self-assertion and reactivity - the inescapable mechanicality of all our assumptions and beliefs that ensure that all our actions either make situations worse or solve nothing. 

And there's a deeper theme. All the characters present aspects of a single individual. Mind. Body. Emotion. Psychopathy. Aspiration. Even wisdom. 

The play gives the lead character a chance to review the disaster of his life and then relive it more consciously and avert the worst of the consequences. As for the others in the cast, they go to hell in a handcart. 

The play, by the way, can be downloaded from this site and is available to any theatre company, professional or amateur, in any county to workshop or stage. Now read on:

 
A jaded smartarse adman called Nick, goes through a door labelled REALITY INSTITUTE. In the office is the Guide, a grave gentleman. Near his desk is a weathercock mounted on a stand.
The Guide asks him how he found the door.
He says, 'I saw your advertisement.'
'Curious,' the Guide says. 'We don't advertise.'
The adman tells the fellow he's in despair. That his life is going nowhere.
The Guide, says, 'And where do you think it should go?'
'Well somewhere.'
'A common misconception,' the Guide says. 'Life's a substrate. Neutral. Like a tree. A tree isn't good or bad. It doesn't take sides or commit adultery. It's never impatient. It's just a tree.'
The Guide tells him to sit down, relax. Then says, 'So let's examine this life of yours.'

Nick then continues with his life while the Guide observes him destroying himself. Then the Guide stops the action. Everyone in the scene freezes. He tells Nick to cease using his facile mind, to shut up and be attentive.

Then the previous scene begins again, repeating, this time in actuality. And Nick, helped by the Guide, manages to be economical with the truth. Disaster is averted. For him at least. This sequence repeats several times.

The play is based on the idea that we can't reach a higher level of functioning because our lower aspects are disharmonized. That we are completely identified —  simply a function of associative thoughts, emotions and physical tensions. And, as there's nothing in us that can stand apart and watch, our actions are merely reactions.

As for the plot: Nick, the adman has got his girlfriend, Sue, pregnant. Sue, conventional and sentimental, is the daughter of retired academic Jim and his ex-journalist wife, Aileen. Sue also has a spiteful psychotic younger sister and their parents can't stand each other. The family spends most of their time tearing themselves apart and Nick adds to the dysfunction. 

Jim eventually botches his suicide and becomes a paraplegic. Aileen, about to leave him for another man is callously dumped on the eve of her flight to happiness. The psychotic sister is returned to an asylum. And Sue, forced to look after her father, has a miscarriage. Nick, in the thick of all this, narrowly escapes his own debacle.

Behind the action is a theme: The characters represent aspects of a single  psyche — mind, body and emotions. Most people have a preponderance of one or the other and see life from that aspect only. Nutty professor... Sybarite... Drama queen... Generally, these aspects need to be balanced for anything truer to appear. So the characters in the play represent the human condition. Chaos.

Jim's the intellectual type. He has grand theories but not the courage of his convictions because he lacks emotional force and practical application. He's a well-meaning hypocrite because he knows everything but can do nothing.  
Here he is lamenting his fate:

I wished to be noble in all my works so I read philosophy for years. To no avail. I've ended up a waste of space. As for this bloody pain. Moving helps but it doesn't stop. Drains you like opening a vein. Which I'm starting to see as an increasingly enticing solution. Death has a lot going for it. Antidote to life. Takes the strain off the heart. Don't try to brighten me up. I'm permanently ...tarnished. Is there an afterlife? Like an afterbirth? No. We die. That's it.

As for Aileen she's basically physical. Her energy and ranting are really inertia. She's self-indulgent, practical, trapped — allays despair with sex, drink and derision. Nothing can satisfy her because she looks outside herself. She is the center of the universe. For her, it's always the other person's fault.

Here she is addressing Jim.

OOo! Did my husband speak? OOo! He's an intellectual don't you know. Head stuffed with rubbish in its most potent form. If you put an angle-grinder through his skull, the hot air would give you third-degree burns. For without him, he fondly surmises, the cows wouldn't lay and the hens would cease to give milk. Personally… personally… I'd like to shove a bomb under him — then stand cheerily by and watch his… energetic… disassembly.

During the action each character indulges in daydreams. Here is Aileen as Aileen Life Form, a stand-up comic:

Nice place this. See those exit signs? Apparently they're on the way out. That's my significant other down there. Got a kiss like a tonsillectomy. But useless at making money. Couldn't get a job as a wind-break. He applied for a position as speed hump but flunked the intelligence test. Still, they say poverty's God's way of telling you you're a failure. Trouble is he costs me a fortune in food - eats anything on four legs except a chair. Then goes to sleep before his teeth hit the glass. And dreams he's a starving cannibal. His pillow's always gone in the morning. Anyway, I went down to the chemist. They've got a sign that says: we dispense with accuracy'. And...

Sue represents the emotional response. She is, by turns, affectionate, sentimental, affronted, hysterical. She's unaware that the negative emotions she mistakes for sincerity, are inevitably partial. Beneath her surface congeniality is a short fuse. She takes everything personally and disguises her chronic resentments with tinsel-thin brightness.'
According to Jim:

Like most sentimental do-gooders she's intoxicated with her sense of importance. Soon as you believe the big lies - progress, justice, equality, democracy, fidelity, heaven, romantic love - you turn into a sanctimonious clown who drives practical people round the bend.  Conventional thinkers are intolerant by definition. So be careful what you say to her. Speak sooth and you'll be stoned.

Aileen describes her in more concrete terms:

As for Her Holiness - Daddy's little angel. So pure you'd think she was married to the trinity. That's trigamy, by the way. This morning... she told me... to drink in moderation! Nothing as extreme as moderation. She gives me the Tom-Tits. To the greater glory of grog. I know I'm sobriety deprived. But it's better to waste your life than do nothing with it..

Nick, of course is a smartarse, only opens his mouth to change feet. Here he is describing his job as a copywriter:

Full page colour spreads. Three headings. You ready? `Not for people who think the Ring Cycle has pedals.' `Not for people who think recessive genes are a fashion statement.' `Not for people who think the Bronte Sisters live south of Bondi.' Empty brand image scores every time.

The Guide, always knows how many beans make five. He pauses before the weathercock, moves it in different directions and says to Nick:

You see this? This part turns in every direction with each wind. Because it needs to respond to what comes. But this part - the spindle it turns on - is always central - never disturbed. I know it's hard to hear real things.

Eventually, Sue, the inwardly disaffected sentimentalist, is confronted by reality when her father's botched suicide turns him into a vegie in a wheelchair, and she is obliged to look after him.

I suppose you've wet your pants again? God, dad, you make it hard. Now, I'm going to put you on the toilet first and I want you to go.  Not just sit there. Stop that. Leave me alone. I'm your daughter for God's sake. Oh, God, I can smell it already. What am I going to do with you? Now, we're going to the toilet and I don't want any nonsense!
Stop... grinning!

The cast can be seen as aspects of one person.  Aileen; body, Sue: emotion, Jim mind. And Nick, rather badly, represents potential - the fairy-tale hero or questing prince. The Guide, on this level, is higher nature. It is always there but can do nothing unless the prodigal returns. It waits, called unfailingly by any genuine effort toward something more inclusive. 

If  you would care to read the play, you can download the PDF here. For permissions to proceed with production, please apply to the author

        


        

THE LAY OF THE LAST POSTMAN

Texting and emails have made snail mail almost irrelevant. And postmen, too. The postie now comes twice a week if we're lucky. Martin Jensen, author of How to Get What you Want now provides a poem on the subject, with profound apologies to Sir Walter Scott and his Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

The way was long. The wind was cold.
The postman was depressed and old.
His withered cheek and tresses grey
Seemed to have known a better day.
His bike, electrified, did creak.
He came round only twice a week.
Beset about by union bans
And men with parcels brought in vans.
The last of all the men of mail
Assaulted by fierce dogs and hail.
His cheerful brethren had retired.
Retrenched, let go, or simply fired.
He'd poke rare letters through the slots
And lots of junk mail. Lots and lots.
The postal office now sold bosh.
Bad books, stuffed toys and sundry tosh.
And substituted for a bank.
He hated it. He thought it stank.
Each month, fewer letters came.
Emails, texting were to blame.
Eventually, he gave his notice.
And now he's fixing lifts for Otis.

 

You can find Martin's fun books on Buzzword

POT LUCK

 Recently, Martin Jensen visited the Pen Museum at Gundagai and bought a pen. To try it out.he wrote this verse, trying to stick to one syllable words. It should cheer all amateur potters.  

One fine day
I threw clay.
Made a pot.
Fired it hot.
Went to fete.
Got there late.
Put a price
To entice.
Many pots.
Lots and lots.
Colours bold.
Not one sold.
Took mine home.
Scratched my dome,
Feeling blue.
What to do?
Put on shelf.
Looked like Delf.
Very fine
And still mine.
Useful too.
Quite a coup.
Keys and cash.
Perfect stash.

You can find Martin's books on Buzzword.

What really happened to Jesus?

 The Passion Play? The 'bread' and 'wine'? The 'physical' resurrection? The 'betrayal' of Judas? Read on:

This story is about two adepts from an esoteric school who trained for twenty years to present a Passion Play designed to influence humanity.
    It concerns the principal adepts Judas and Jesus. Both of them were astonishing. For instance, a suffering woman crept up behind Jesus and touched the hem of his garment, hoping to be cured. He immediately knew that power had gone out of him. Could a man on such a level of perception not know that he was about to be betrayed? Of course not. He knew well and agreed with the 'betrayal'.
    The Sanhedrin was about to pounce and drag Jesus off. All part of the script. But inconvenient. Because it left no time to conduct the final spiritual technique before he died.
    So Judas negotiated with the Rabbis and delayed his capture. He said he would give Jesus up later at an appropriate time.
    This freed Jesus and the 'disciples', who were not simple fishermen but highly evolved initiates, to engage in the 'last supper'.
    This was a far from symbolic technique which has pallid echoes even today in the ritual of blood brotherhood. It involved the 'disciples' consuming some of the Master's blood with slivers of his flesh to create a psychic bond with him, so that, at 'Pentecost' they could commune with a short time with his astral or etheric body — and prove for themselves, among other things that a form of 'life' continued beyond the grave.
    The notion of Christ rising from the dead physically was a much later embellishment that has troubled rational thinkers ever since because they regard it rightly as nonsense. Dead bodies don’t get up and cavort. As for the 'virgin birth' it was borrowed from the myths of Mithras and Herakles and tacked on to the story later.
    If you are a committed Christian, this explanation will either disgust you or furnish you with insights that have the ring of truth. You can read it in Clinton Smith's story, The Stand-in under FREE READS on the Buzzword Books website or download it here.

 

THE DAY I BECAME PRIME MINISTER...

 John Alexandra muses on power...

…I did nothing. 

    Because I knew that you're damned if you do and damned if you don't.

    Because I knew that every action creates an equal and opposite reaction.
    That every solution produces eight more problems.
    That silence is ten times more powerful than speech.
    That they who know most do least.
    That there is no need to seek after the real. Simply to cease making distinctions.
    That all is vanity.
    That the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong.
    That that which is to be has already been and there is no new thing under the sun.,
    That the more things change, the more they remain the same.
    That change happens only to the knower. And as the knower is unreal, nothing, in fact ever happens.
    That I was not here to better myself but to experience this moment. And the effort of being in the moment was suffering enough. 

    And so I resolved to live continuously in the divine essence and the nothingness of things.
    To accept emptiness, the void. 

    My cabinet ministers were not impressed.

THE POWER OF PERSONAL HYGENE

 Martin Jensen, author of How to Get What You Want, gives you the lowdown on his personal life.

 

Why do little ducklings walk softly? Because they can’t walk hardly.

To be serious, animals that have lost their mums fixate on people who try to look after them. 

Ducklings, even baby hippos, will follow you around.

When I was five, I developed an infection behind my right ear. My mum put flour on it to dry it and told me to always wash behind my ears. She told me this in the street on her way to wash bottles for the war effort. Eighty-one years later, it is as if I see the scene now.

And at age 86, I still wash behind my ears. Like a duckling or baby hippo, the act she imprinted on me is essential. If I don’t wash behind my ears, it feels wrong. And to do it brings me comfort. I imagine that my long dead mum would be amazed at this result but there it is.

Another thing I do compulsively, is have an eyebath. Each morning, in the shower, before washing behind my ears, I prime my small plastic eyebath with a trickle of salt. Then, when I’ve cleaned my eyelids with soap, I apply the eyebath to each eye in turn, blinking, of course, so the saline contacts the eye.

At 86, my eyes are not good and have been easily infected. Not now. On my last visit to the ophthalmologist, I told him my habit. He sighed and said, ‘I’m not sure you can buy eyebaths anymore.’ Next day, I ransacked two Chemist Warehouse stores and left about fifteen eyebaths at the desk for him.

At night, after a hard night snoring in front of the boob tube, my eyelids feel gritty. Do I use eyedrops? Not always. I lick my finger and rub them over the closed lids. It gives almost instant relief. Saliva is partly antiseptic and does the job. It’s not for nothing we have the expression ‘licking your wounds’. If saliva is good enough for cats and dogs, it’s fine.

Another thing I never miss is flossing my teeth. At 86, I have lost two teeth, but would have lost more without this habit. I’ve made a flossing device with two prongs to hold the floss. There is a wooden handle attached with two long screws surmounted by wingnuts, one on either side. One holds the spindle with the floss. (You just gut the floss container and fish it out.) The other secures two brass washers that clamp the end of the floss in place. I have made a dozen of these contraptions and have one in several rooms of the house. Another in the car glovebox. Another in my overnight bag. And I have donated more to friends and family. They make flossing extremely easy and reduce the cost to almost nothing.

Finally, as I squat on the toilet (if you sit on it you’re a  fool) it brings my toes conveniently near my hands. This makes it easy to grab a nailfile and roughen the nails of my feet. Then I brush them with antifungal solution. The lacquer is dry before I step into the shower.

I have now divulged the minutia of my self-maintenance regime.

There is more, of course. Lifting weights, bike riding, walking, but you don’t need instructions for that. Except to say that if you lift weights when you are 20, you can improve your fitness 10 per cent. But if you start lifting weights after 75, you can improve your fitness 30 per cent. So if you want to die fit, get a press bench.

Then there’s diet. More veg. Less meat. And a morning teaspoon of brewer’s yeast, which contains every trace element known.

Go, and do thou likewise.

And remember that growing old is the only way to live a long time.

You can read Martin's Books on Buzzword.

IS IT POSSIBLE TO TOUCH, TO SENSE, THE UNFORMED?

John Alexandra's second book is a manual for doing just that. It leads the seeker progressively from utter rationality to the arcane. Here is a review by D. S. Mills:

This book is as practical as it is profound. An uncompromising investigation of the world and our inner selves. It begins with an exposition of contemporary thought — scientific, philosophical and spiritual. And demonstrates that these three ways of knowledge are fundamentally flawed.

Then it examines the perceiver. And deconstructs everything we believe about ourselves. It demonstrates that objectively, we don't exist. That all our thoughts, opinions, convictions, passions, regrets, recriminations, the whole panorama of what we call our personalities is simply a series of conditioned reactions based on fear. And that, unless we realize that we are nonentities, nothing more is possible.

To quote from the introduction: "Many so-called gurus declare that we are already everything — God. This assertion is as mindless as saying that we don't exist at all. Yet both are true. And false. Because reality is with us always and we are attempting to find what always was, and always will, exist.

What you and the cosmos consist of can eventually be sensed — but at a level of perception that mind, body and emotions can't grasp. The problem is to make these parts passive while remaining acutely alert.
Simple and extraordinarily difficult as all profundities are.
It requires total attention.
To remain in the space before thought.
To be aware of yourself.
To be."

The second half of the book opens the frontiers of insight, assisted by copious quotes from gurus and spiritual masters. There is no compromising here. The doors of perception, the text explains, only open after the entire psychology has been abandoned, and only physiological life remains. The aspirant must die too himself, totally and completely. The book even shows how to do this. But the path is steep and I suspect that few seekers will have courage enough to tread it. Because it requires total sincerity and utter self-negation.

This is a serious study suitable only for those sincere enough to risk everything in the quest - a practical manual on approaching Reality. Its triumph is that it makes sense, and reconciles, both outer and inner worlds.

Available now from Buzzword.